


I've Had Worse

by DVwrites



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And if you choose to see Courf/Enj then go for it my friend, Gen, I didn't know that was a tag??, I'm impressed AO3, Mugging, Wow, and also implied injury, but it's happy I swear!, but yes mugging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 18:44:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DVwrites/pseuds/DVwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Courf did wake up, the first thing he saw was Enjolras. <br/>And the first thing he said was: ‘whoops’, in a voice that was hardly audible.<br/>Never take a bullet for me, he'd said. Well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've Had Worse

I've Had Worse

“Don’t ever take a bullet for me,” He says, and he’s wearing that intense stare that once made a girl cry on accident, an ounce of seriousness in his lips. “Ever. I mean it.”

It was just like Enjolras to play this all off like it was 1832. Like they could actually ever get shot. And it was just like Courfeyrac to laugh it off, dryly, as if he could tell the humour had gone ages ago. The humour had died when Enjolras even had this nightmare.

“I can’t make any promises.”

“It’s not worth it, Courf. In hindsight, it’s not worth you dying for someone else. Especially not me.”

Courf cleared his throat. “I have to disagree. I think giving someone I care about the chance to live would be the best thing I could do.”

Quiet. Courf would forever remember this moment as the moment he’d managed to talk Enjolras into a temporary silence; the man who could talk a women into handing over her child, or could talk everyone into an ideal that no one really believed in anymore.

He even got a half-smile for his efforts, and for a small second, Enjolras looked less tired, like he had moments ago when he’d been cradling the mug of warm milk and staring off into the wall as he described how he’d watched them all die. Over and over.

“I’ll think about it.”

“You do that, Enj. Meanwhile, fancy some actual tea now?”

At least it’d never happen.

 

“Your money. _Now_.”

Courf was ready to charm his way out of this. His hands were raised, defensively, up near his chest. He was trying to be calm. No wisecracks.

Enjolras, on the other hand; his fingers were already balled into fists, and that look was on his face – the one that could usually reduce anyone above 6,2 into a 4 year old girl – savage, like some sort of Greek warrior, poised for battle.

The other guy might have shrank, if he hadn’t had a gun; a gun pointed at Enjolras, clearly able to identify who posed as a larger threat right now.

This alley was a bad idea.

He’d felt that at the back of his neck when they’d looked at it. He should have gone with his instincts.

“Hey, we’re just walking through here. We’re students. If we had money, we’d use it--…”

“Your _money_.”

“We don’t have anything,” Courf tried again, hands lowering a little. “Look, we just want to walk home. If you’d put the gun down…”

“I don’t want to shoot you, paddy, but that doesn’t mean I won’t.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Courf saw Enjolras’ jaw clench. Never a good sign. That was his pre-social vigilante look. He wanted to hiss through his teeth that they just needed to go home – they could help to put a criminal behind bars before he mugged an old lady some other time.

His Irish luck had run out tonight, however, and Enjolras stepped forward.

The mugger, however, stepped back.

It was then that Courf had a fleeting hope – that maybe the gun was a fake. Maybe the mugger would run, or maybe Enj was lucky enough to land a punch.

None of those things happened.

The mugger aimed; “I warned you,” was the only sound before the shot rang out against the tall walls surrounding them.

And Enjolras heard it, but didn’t feel it, and the first thing his mind registered was that the gun was fake. It didn’t fire anything. The second thing he registered was that the mugger had bolted, and he was going to run after him, until Courf murmured in front of him.

It was the quietest ‘ow’ he’d ever heard. And then he slumped, against the wall, at first, and then down to the concrete.

The gun wasn’t a fake.

And Enjolras felt his chest constrict.

 

Four hours after surgery, and two hours after the police had finished questioning Enjolras, they were finally allowed into his room, to sit with him.

Grantaire and Bahorel were understandably angry. Not with Enjolras. But angry none the less. No one was angry with Enjolras except the chief himself. No one even asked him anymore, because when they’d first got the run-down of what had happened from his two syllable answers, Combeferre dutifully orchestrated the rest afterwards.

Joly had appeared as soon as he’d found out, which was 1am, with Musichetta and Bossuet in tow. He looked more relieved than most of them.

“He’s perfectly stable,” He’d explained, running his fingers through Courf’s dark hair, hand moving that way after he’d checked his temperature. “He’ll wake up, at least. But he’ll hurt, a lot. But he’s not dead. And he’s not dying. We should be thankful for that, at least. As long as he doesn’t have an embolism. Or an aneurism. Or a blood clot, Chetta—“

And Chetta moved to his side to squeeze his arm as Joly swallowed, thickly.

Enjolras cradled his face in his hands, and stayed that way for the rest of the visiting hour.

 

When Courf did wake up, the first thing he saw was Enjolras.

And the first thing he said was: ‘whoops’, in a voice that was hardly audible.

Enjolras’ back straightens, and he stands by his bedside, and grips his hand when Courf offers it.

“You’re an idiot,” He manages out.

“Are you mad?” Courf asks, and his voice is still quiet, as if he’s trying to move his mouth properly. The morphine.

“Not as much as I should be,” Enjolras counters, and places the hand he held to his mouth, and then to his forehead, breathing out. “Never do that again. Never.”

“Can’t make any promises, chief.” And Courf smiles back at him. 


End file.
